Cash My Chips, Croupier Page 16

  ‘No, Ken. Just me.’ When the Australian pointed his gun at the bearded man Halder’s eyes widened with genuine surprise. ‘So first you hand over the money collected from Toni. I’m taking it and leaving as we originally planned. You can stay and talk Perran to death and take a chance on this pair shopping you when you reach for your damned plate and pictures. I don’t give a damn any more. A hundred and forty thousand will do me. It’s bigger than I ever expected, so maybe it’s time I wised up in a hurry and did my own thinking instead of letting you do it for me. Your tongue’s too smooth, Ken. I ought to have realised sooner that I could be the prize pigeon, sitting in the coop waiting to be plucked clean. But I’m out of the coop, Ken, and on my own. So the cash. Just hand it over and I’ll let you walk out with those two, and don’t think I’m not being generous.’

  It had been quite a speech for Harvey Harris, who had thrust his way up through the underworld mire with more use of his brawn than his brain.

  ‘Giving up the gym?’

  ‘It just pays its way, and the lease is due for renewal soon. Let someone else find the dough. I’m heading out for sun, sheilas, and the soft life.’

  Sheila Devlin, with some colour returned to her cheeks, coughed at the slang use of her first name and Perran put an arm around her to steady her as she shuddered.

  Harris caught the movement and sneered.

  ‘Present company excepted, as Ken would say. Well, he’s finished saying any more to me. He can save it for you two. Now, Ken, I never beg. So fork over the money. I know you’ve got it aboard.’

  The bearded man rose. The amusement had been washed from his eyes.

  ‘You’re making a mistake,’ he said quietly.

  ‘It’s my mistake.’

  ‘True, but all you require — ’

  ‘The cash. That’s all. You don’t have to tell me.’

  ‘I said I don’t like guessing games. Very well, I won’t guess. I’ll — ’

  ‘Quit trying to cool me with a load of bull, Ken. It won’t work. I’m suddenly awake. I’ve heard you talk me damned nearly to sleep and if the girl hadn’t asked about the trunk you weren’t opening it. Oh, no, you were all set to slip ashore and leave me with this box of bones.’

  A second kick of the trunk made Sheila catch her breath sharply.

  The bearded man flicked a glance at Perran, who caught a meaningful look in Halder’s eyes that the journalist couldn’t interpret. His arm around Sheila tightened and it seemed she drew closer to him.

  ‘So for the last time, Ken.’ Harris spaced his words to make them register like an ultimatum. ‘The cash. Hand it over or I blast you apart and come looking for it — after I’ve finished with them.’

  His head jerked at Perran and the girl.

  Halder shrugged. ‘Very well, if that’s the way you want it, Harvey.’

  Harris watched him as he turned his back to reach down for a piece of slim air-flight luggage. The locks clicked back, and he bent to reach inside. Up to that instant his movements had been slow and leisurely, the movements of a man bringing himself to accept a decision he had not sought. Suddenly his right hand dived. Halder spun to one side, turning as he did so and bringing up the small Spanish automatic he had grabbed from its nest in the suitcase.

  As the light touched the bluish metal Perran flung Sheila down and sprawled on top of her. The roar of an exploding gun in the small cabin was like a thunderclap. It seemed to roll round and round for echoing seconds.

  ‘Get up.’

  The voice was Harvey Harris’s. Perran twisted his head to look at the Australian and rose slowly, keeping a foot on Sheila’s rump so that she couldn’t follow his example.

  For one crazy moment the two men stared at each other, neither bending his glance to where Sir Kenneth Halder lay in a heap with a bullet in his brain.

  ‘Sorry it’s got to be this way, chum, but you invited yourself. And don’t expect me to feel bad. You didn’t give me any pats on the back in that damned series you ran in the Banner.’

  Micky Perran opened his mouth to say something. Anything, just so long as he could stop the crazy killer opposite from cutting loose again. But the words never came.

  For at that moment a police whistle blew stridently.

  Harvey Harris’s glance swung to the door. As it did so the journalist jumped him, calling ‘Keep down on the floor, Sheila!’

  The second bullet did not find its target, like the first, but it drilled through space close enough to Perran’s face to make him conscious of its passing. Then his fist caught Harris in the groin as he went in low and finished up twisting on the floor to get the automatic Halder had not been given time to use.

  Harris, however, was a character with frightening reserves of animal strength and stamina. He doubled up but did not fall moaning, and he did not drop his gun. But he was slow enough to allow the desperate man on the floor to shoot out the light, and that was the move that saved Sheila’s life, for Harris was aiming his gun to put a slug in her head.

  Perran’s second shot missed because Harris was travelling. He reached the door, threw it open, and moonlight and star sheen swept over him. But he was too late in adjusting the focus of his eyes. He didn’t see the truncheon whirling like a boomerang for his head until it was too late to dodge it.

  The hard stick of wood, thrown by an expert named Bill Hazard, hit the Australian’s forehead with a sound that was like iron striking oak.

  Harvey Harris went down as though poleaxed, squeezing a bullet at the stars by some muscular reflex action. Then the Sussex Regional Crime Squad came leaping over the side. Perran made out the shadowed features of Chris Dunmore beside a thin man he thought must be Superintendent Laidlaw from Lewes. Only a step behind was Frank Drury.

  Perran stooped and helped Sheila to her feet as handcuffs clicked around the unconscious Australian’s wrists.

  ‘How’s that for timing?’ asked Drury.

  He flashed a torch into the darkness of the cabin, and its ray steadied on the dead Halder. The superintendent’s expression hardened.

  ‘Too damned close,’ Perran said, answering a question Drury had already forgotten. ‘One of the crew wasn’t around to hear the whistle blow.’

  Sheila Devlin’s arms went around him as though she was pulling herself closer to safety.

  Sheila stopped typing as the phone in Micky Perran’s flat rang. She was looking pleased with the story she had been shaping for Phil Strapp with assistance from Micky.

  ‘Well, aren’t you going to answer it?’ she smiled.

  ‘At the moment you’re giving it too much competition.’

  ‘Fool,’ she laughed, but the word had a soft touch against the ear, like a caress, and there was a subtle change to her smile, one that made him feel warm where he had been chilled for far too long.

  He lifted the receiver and at once sounded surprised.

  ‘You have?’ he exclaimed. ‘Well this will wrap it up finally.’

  Frank Drury said, ‘Can you collect Miss Devlin in a hurry?’

  Perran looked at her, closed one eye, and said, ‘She’s here, working in my lounge.’

  ‘Working?’ asked Drury. ‘Is that the name they give it?’

  Sheila could hear Drury’s mocking laugh as Perran held the receiver away from his ear.

  Drury went on, ‘We’re going down right away. It takes three to four hours, depends on the road traffic. If you two want to come we’ll pick you up in half an hour. That should be ample time to alert that slave-driver Strapp. And you can tell him I’ll collect a triple Scotch next time I’m passing the Banner office.’

  ‘I’ll tell him, and we’ll be waiting. Nice of you. Super.’

  ‘A promise is a promise, and I owe the pair of you something for that Sea Elf caper the other night. Walter Bronley’s elected to talk, by the way. We picked up Sandra Beltby when she was climbing the fire escape to Mario’s apartment. He damned nearly had a seizure when he found she was carrying big H for Cathy. Won’t believe
Ebor isn’t in it. But that’s by the way. Inside half an hour, then.’

  The connection was broken.

  ‘Drury,’ said Sheila. ‘I gather we’re being taken to wherever they’ve picked him up.’

  ‘Right. Hereford. Get yourself ready. I must ring Strapp and tell him it’s all going to break in his lap like a carton of dropped eggs.’

  Twenty-two minutes later they joined Bill Hazard and Frank Drury in a black police Jaguar. Hazard was driving. As soon as the Jag’s doors clicked shut he started for Hammersmith Bridge and the M4. They had a good road and were entering the city on the Wye in a few minutes under the three hours. There had been little talk on the journey. Drury was in no mood to be pumped. He sat and smoked his pipe beside Hazard, who burned the occasional cigarette and concentrated on his driving. To Perran, sitting in the back with Sheila and very conscious of her nearness and perfume which Drury’s pipe didn’t entirely drown, it seemed that Hazard was taciturn to the point of being glum because Drury had something weighing on his mind.

  Only once did Perran try to break through what seemed disturbingly like a wall of reserve. That was when he asked, ‘How came the Hereford police picked him up, Super?’

  ‘Very easy. We had alerted all stations and supplied the number of his lorry.’

  ‘Lorry?’

  ‘Yes, the Hereford police are holding it and are leaving it for us to examine.’

  ‘But how came you knew he had a lorry?’

  At that Drury had turned round and looked archly at his questioner.

  ‘We knew it two days ago. Don’t make the mistake of imagining we don’t earn our keep, chummy. All we had to do was get that punch-drunk pushover Alf Bradley to shake up his wits. He not only knew of the lorry, but saw him change the bloody number-plates, so we had the number for a bonus. Even you could have played being a cop with that much.’

  It was an observation that negatived any comment or further questions. But it was very obvious that Drury was on edge.

  They drove into the yard of the station where the lorry was parked and a beefy-faced man with a brown moustache introduced himself as Chief Inspector Warrener. He pulled back the faded green tarpaulin covering the top of the lorry, to reveal a trunk identical to the one Perran had seen in the Sea Elf s cabin. Beside it was a wooden crate held together with four-inch nails, one side having the words ‘With Care’ stenciled on it in bright purple. They looked as ugly as a facial birthmark.

  The chief inspector eyed Perran and Sheila suspiciously, but was careful not to question their presence. After all, now the Yard had taken over he had passed up any responsibility he might have had, and was secretly overjoyed at the thought, but played according to the rules by determinedly not showing it.

  ‘You going to open them?’

  ‘Not for a moment,’ Drury told the local man. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He had a small cheap attaché case in the cab. The lock was broken and rusty. All it contained were shaving things and a spare shirt and socks. Funny, though, among the things we took from his pockets was an inexpensive diamond half-hoop ring. Still bright, so it hadn’t been worn long. He had a bunch of keys of course.’

  As he finished the chief inspector glanced at the bed of the lorry, where the trunk had a lock. Drury was trying to make out the name of the painted-out firm under the fresh green side of the lorry. He couldn’t truthfully claim he could make out the obliterated letters, which he knew spelled Cross Counties Transport Co.

  ‘All right, let’s have him brought out of his retreat, Chief Inspector,’ he said. ‘I don’t intend to charge him until we’ve looked inside the trunk and the crate, and I might have to go back to Sussex to do that.’

  The beefy-faced local man looked a couple of questions at the Yard superintendent, but Drury avoided meeting his eye and spoke to Hazard.

  ‘Bill, you stick close and make sure he doesn’t try anything.’

  The Yard inspector nodded.

  They all trooped into the police station and Warrener led them to his own office. He sent a sergeant for two more chairs and told him to have the prisoner shown in.

  The chairs arrived first.

  Three minutes later a uniformed desk sergeant came in after opening the door wide.

  ‘Here he is, sir,’ he said.

  A uniformed constable pushed Bert Bowden into the room. Drury nodded to Warrener, who signalled to the uniformed men. They withdrew. Bowden licked his lips and said, ‘Who’s she?’ nodding at Sheila.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Drury. I’m Superintendent Drury of Scotland Yard — ’

  ‘I know,’ Bowden nodded. ‘Seen your photo in the Sunday papers plenty of times. He must be Inspector Hazard.’ After another nod he frowned and looked at Perran. ‘You I missed, didn’t I? You hopped it like a scalded cat while my old woman was screaming her head off.’

  ‘I’m Perran,’ the journalist admitted.

  ‘All right,’ said Drury. ‘Now you know why I’m here. You’ve stolen a lorry.’

  ‘You’d have a hard job to prove it,’ Bowden grinned, and afterwards passed a hand over his face, as though he was suddenly weary. ‘Get it over, guv’nor. I’ve about had enough.’ He perked up a little to ask, ‘How did you get me picked up? Did that bleeder Bradley grass?’

  ‘It wasn’t smart to change the number-plates while he was looking.’

  ‘I meant to change them again, but forgot to bring the extra plates.’ Bowden shook his head, his eyes growing a fixed glassy look. ‘Then I read in the paper about Harris getting nicked for murdering that bearded nob and after that I couldn’t risk going back or trying to get a fresh set of plates from a garage.’

  ‘Where were you heading?’

  ‘Wales.’

  ‘What part?’

  ‘One of the lakes.’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘I didn’t give a damn, guv’nor. Not so long as I could get there at night and the water was deep.’

  ‘You might just as easily have tried to climb Snowdon with the load you had.’

  ‘Didn’t think of it, mister,’ Bowden said sourly.

  Warrener started to grin, but saw that none of the others had found the words humorous, and replaced the grin with a blank look.

  ‘Well, let’s wrap it up, Bowden. We’ve got your keys,’ said Drury. ‘Why did you have to take Airs. Craig’s ring?’

  ‘It was no good to her and it might have been worth a quid or two. Could have lasted me out till I reached Cardiff and met this chap Vernon. The one that Irish Bronley used to run with. Reckoned he could fix me all right.’

  ‘Too right he could,’ snorted Drury. ‘He’d have run you straight back to Bandelli.’

  Bert Bowden crumpled at that, rubbed his left wrist across his moist mouth and said, ‘Bloody world, ain’t it?’

  They went out to the yard where the lorry was parked. Sheila held Perran’s arm. She stared around at the closed gates and the uniformed constables stationed around on guard. Chief Inspector Warrener didn’t know the full score, but he knew enough to take no chances until he’d collected a receipt for this Bowden character who was wanted in London.

  A couple of constables manhandled the trunk from the lorry and then dumped the wooden crate beside it. They left the purple words ‘With Care’ uppermost. Drury passed Bowden the bunch of keys. The man looked at them glumly, shook his head, and then untied his left shoe, took off a sock and from the toe removed a small bright key. No one looked at Chief Inspector Warrener, whose face was scarlet.

  ‘Didn’t want to lose it after all the trouble I’d taken,’ Bowden said. ‘You know why? They jailed me for that Blaise Manor job, the only bloke to get done, and all I did was drive a lorry. So I reckoned I had something coming to me.’

  ‘I really think you have, chummy,’ said Drury. ‘Hurry up and unlock it.’

  Bowden inserted the key in the lock and opened the trunk to reveal contents that shone with golden and silver reflections. The plate and ornaments, the jewel boxes,
the chalices and bowls and tableware were wedged between rolled-up canvases that had hung on walls enclosing the precious metalware now keeping them company in a second-hand travelling trunk purchased in a shop in Brighton’s ‘lanes.’

  ‘Now the crate.’

  ‘I’ll need a crowbar.’

  ‘We’ll give you one, but don’t try anything, that’s all.’

  ‘Open it yourself, guv’nor. I got no longing to.’

  ‘Bill,’ said Drury.

  Hazard walked across the yard, spoke to a sergeant and a couple of minutes later came back with a crowbar with a forked end. Before he could hand it to Bowden the local chief inspector pushed forward.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Just a precaution.’

  He produced handcuffs which he placed on Bowden’s wrists.

  ‘Good idea,’ Drury said, a man making a gesture. ‘Thank you.’

  The manacled man stared at his steel-encased wrists as though trying to comprehend what had happened to him. Bill Hazard thrust the claw-hooked crowbar at him.

  ‘Use a bit of muscle on the box, Bowden. We haven’t got all day.’

  Bowden grasped the crowbar with both hands and wrenched at the nails, forcing them through the thick but soft white timber, which protested at his urgent violence with short sharp squeals. At last the packing case was opened, the top tossed to one side, revealing a dark Army blanket that had been loosely tucked inside, as though to cover something quite large.

  Drury came forward, and for a protracted moment he and Bowden seemed to share something they held in secret. The Yard man took the crowbar from hands that seemed nerveless.

  ‘Remove it,’ he said.

  Bowden did a curious thing. He lifted his manacled hands to his mouth and blew in them as though they were cold. Then he bent and tugged away the dark woollen blanket. There was a gasp of shocked surprise. It came from Sheila, followed by the words, ‘Oh, my God! Oh, how awful!’

  It was.

  Mary Bowden hadn’t died so neatly as Joanne Craig, at whose special postmortem, called within hours of her body being got ashore, the medical verdict was death from cardiac thrombosis aggravated by alcoholic poisoning. Her throat had been slit, and her dress was caked black with dried blood.